Slocum and the Lone Star Feud Page 9

  “it hasn’t been fair for years, but that don’t make it different either.”

  “Nothing that I can do?”

  “You and the cowboys go to roundup like you planned. I’ll keep an eye on the outside circle when I get back from the Red River. Take me a long night to ride up there, then ask around and learn all I can about Devereau.”

  “You will be back?”

  “I’ll keep in touch with you until you’re through roundup.”

  She dropped her gaze to the tin plate. He waited. Something remained unspoken between them.

  “Hell with it,” she said suddenly. “I may be a brazen hussy to say this, but—well, if you don’t find me too ugly, I mean . . . Dammit, Slocum, I’m trying to say that you can share my sheets anytime.”

  With a sharp nod of acceptance, he reached over and squeezed her hand. “I appreciate that—it’s been sweet.”

  “Sweet...” She closed her eyes and a bright crimson color crossed her tanned face, especially the pale skin of her forehead that had been long shaded by her Stetson. Her gaze fell, and she shook her head. “Better than sweet.”

  It was close to midnight when he left her at the ranch. There had been no sign of the law or any trouble in their absence, and after a brief discussion with Lopez and Ray about their roles at roundup, he took a fresh horse and headed north.

  At dawn, he slept a few hours in a draw off the road, wrapped in his soogans. Then, after sunup, he pushed on, reaching Doane’s Store in mid-afternoon. The shower of the day before had missed this region. From the rise he could see the muddy Red snaking along, and the weather-beaten buildings and hitch rack that served as the bar and store. It was the last outpost and supply point before the drovers pushed their herds into the Indian Nation.

  As he booted the pony on in, he figured that Doane’s commerce had to be down. The railroad had come to Fort Worth and most of the cattle driving was over, save for some Indian beef that needed to be driven up to some agency.

  The few hip-shot ponies at the rack probably belonged to punchers. Some of the riders had taken off their chaps and hung them on their saddlehorns. They’d left their mounts to switch their tails at flies and gone into the dark interior of the store to drink some beer or whiskey. Slocum left his horse at the rack and went in himself.

  “Howdy, partner,” a red-faced man with a gray walrus mustache said from behind the counter. “What’s your pleasure?”

  “Rye whiskey,” Slocum said, eyeing the riders at the bar who looked in his direction with mild interest. They wore unblocked hats and were Indians or mixed bloods.

  “Bottle or shot?”

  “Double,” Slocum said with a nod, and then took a place at the end of the bar that ran the length of the store.

  “Going north or south?” the barkeep asked, slapping down the glass and expertly sloshing four fingers in it.

  “Looking to buy some cattle. I’ve got a contract to fill.” He nodded in the direction of the Indian Nation across the river.

  “You know we’ve been in a drought?” the barkeep asked, leaning on the hand that held the bottle.

  “I can see. You had some rain lately?”

  “No, just thunder the other day, must have been way southwest of here. Most of the cattle are thin.”

  “That’s why I need some with flesh for this contract.”

  “Devereau. Wayne Devereau may have some.”

  “Good. Where do I find him?” He wanted to smile at the name, but concealed his pleasure.

  “About ten miles southwest of here. I ain’t sure he’s at home. Chalk?” he said to one of the halfbreeds, and waved him over. “This man needs some cattle with flesh. Devereau might have some, huh?”

  “Yeah,” the copper-faced man agreed.

  “He at home now?” the barkeep asked the breed.

  “Yeah, if he ain’t gone out again.”

  “His place hard to find?” Slocum asked.

  “Nope. Follow the wagon tracks west along the river until Turkey Creek comes in. Then the tracks split and you can follow them and go over the hills to his place.” With his arm like a semaphore, the breed pointed southwest.

  “Thanks.” Slocum turned back and took a deep drink of the rye. The whiskey burned a hole in the trail dust in his throat.

  “You tell him Chalk sent him. You need cowboys?” the breed asked.

  “Not yet, but if I get those cattle I need bought from him, then I will. You and your pards over there ready to trail a herd?”

  “Damn right.” The others nodded in agreement and listened close.

  “I have to buy them first.”

  “You just tell Billy here. He can find us,” Chalk said.

  “Yeah, stranger, Chalk and them boys are good hands as you can get.” The barkeep dried his hands on a bar towel and then stuck it out. “Billy Duncan.”

  “John Simmons, nice to meet you,” Slocum said, and shook hands with the man.

  “Where do you hail from?”

  “Kansas.”

  “Dry up there too?”

  “Some. Not this bad.” He finished his drink, bought some fresh cigars out of the glass jar, gave Chalk one of them, and earned a grin from the breed. Then he thanked Billy and left for Devereau’s.

  From his saddlebags he took out some jerky to chew on as he rode. The heat rose up off the dusty wagon tracks as he trotted his pony. Stopping at the dry Turkey Creek, he removed his hat and wiped his face on his sleeve. He dismounted in the shade of a sycamore and loosened the cinch to let the bay breathe. Besides, he didn’t want to ride into Devereau’s in the daylight. He also hoped the rustler would not recognize him. Obviously this man was well known in the area. So he must have friends around. Slocum would have to watch his back.

  He leaned against the great tree and smoked a small cigar. Considering his next move, he blew the sweet smoke away and listened to the river and birds in the trees. It was peaceful and calm—hot as hell, but still not bad. He recalled being cold to the bone the day before in the thunderstorm with Sam’s ripe body in his arms. Then he figured he better get his mind on what he would tell Devereau to bait him into a cow deal.

  Satisfied he had his story down, he caught the pony, cinched him up, and swung aboard. He pushed across the empty bed of Turkey Creek, and at a trot headed southwest on the wagon tracks.

  A low log headquarters under some walnuts in a deep swale spread before him in the late afternoon. The shrill scream of a stallion cut the afternoon air. The stud was someplace in the corrals beyond the ranch house, and then Slocum spotted the red roan animal pacing back and forth up and down the fence. His snowy mane unfurled as he nervously went back and forth, testing the pole fencing for a place to escape.

  Slocum decided to ride on in. Cautiously he glanced around, but saw nothing out of place, and nudged the pony downhill. Some dogs barked, and a nice-looking woman came out on the porch. Her raven-black hair, in a bun behind her head, shone in the sunlight as she held her hand up to shade her eyes and look at him. Part or all Indian, he decided. Her dark eyes flashed at him as if questioning why he was there. They had an almond shape, almost Oriental, and her hook nose was too small for an Indian, but she had the rich coloration in her face and hands. Her hair was Indian too.

  “Who are you?” She showed a nice figure in the starched white blouse and divided riding shirt. She was maybe five-six, with a look that did not bode friendliness. He guessed she was in her mid-twenties. She might be older, but was very well preserved, and acting very proper. Obviously she had been to a white finishing school.

  “John Simmons is my name. Is this Devereau’s place?”

  “He’s not here. Come back another time.” She started to look back at the door and caught herself. Tapping her boot toe on the board deck impatiently, she gave him a peeved look.

  “I want to buy some cattle.”

  “Well, he’s not here.” She shook her head with impatience.

  “Will he be back soon?”

  “He’s not her
e now.”

  “You said that. I’m here on business. Do you know if he will be back soon? I need to talk to him.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Are you his wife?”

  “My name is Red Feather.” Her breasts rose and fell under the white material. Obviously she was anxious about something inside the house, for even though she tried not to glance back, he could see that something inside bothered her. Was Devereau back there with a gun?

  “Mine’s Simmons. I rode a long ways. May I wait out here on the porch?”

  “He sometimes does not come home for days, but wait if you want to.”

  “Do you live with him?”

  “I live here.”

  “Tell your friend she can come out now,” Slocum said, and dropped from the saddle as if disinterested. He began undoing his cinch.

  An Indian woman with a small child in her arms came out. She did not look at Slocum, but said something to Red Feather and then ran across the yard and vanished into the trees.

  “Her husband beats her,” Red Feather said. “She has no people here. He does not like for her to stay here.”

  “Her secret is safe with me,” Slocum said.

  “Safe with you?” She threw her head back and laughed.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Who are you?” She closed her eyes as she began to parade up and down the plank porch. “I should be more careful or he will catch me, won’t he?” She studied the hills to the south as if looking for him.

  “Maybe you should go with her.” Slocum nodded in the woman’s direction.

  “And live in a hut, eat fish from the river and dog meat?” She wrinkled her small hook nose in distaste at the notion. “No, I have done that. I will stay here.”

  “Your life.” He shrugged. “Is Devereau coming back soon?”

  “Yes. I expect him back tonight or in the morning.”

  “Good. I’ll wait for him then.”

  “Since you know all my secrets, I will feed you, Simmons. Come inside.”

  “Kind of you.”

  “Where do you come from?” she asked as she paused in the doorway.

  “Kansas,” he said.

  “I was there once. In Dodge.”

  “I’ve been there several times.”

  “Sit at the table. I have some meat and potatoes ready.” She indicated the long board table and benches. It was apparent that she sometimes fed a crew in this house. Slocum removed his hat and hung it on a post, then washed and dried his hands and finally sat down.

  “Here,” she said, and returned with a plate of steaming food. “Did you ever rape an Indian girl there?”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Dodge?”

  “No, ma’am. Did they rape you there?”

  “Yes. Ten cowboys raped me there. I counted them.”

  “Tough place, but you got away?”

  “Afterwards, I climbed into a freight wagon and when it was out on the prairie, I jumped out.”

  “You lived in Dodge?”

  “I got off the train there. I had just finished boarding school and I was going to Santa Fe to see my father.”

  “You never got to Santa Fe?” With a knife, he cut the stringy meat in rich gravy and the potatoes. He realized how hungry he was for real food when saliva rushed into his mouth.

  “When I finally got there three months later, he was dead,” she said. “Shot in a card game.”

  “Where did you find Devereau?” he asked between bites.

  “Fort Griffin. I lived with the Cheyenne in the territory for a while. I left them and went to Griffin looking for a better life. Devereau was out there hunting buffalo, and he promised me he had a big ranch back here in Texas.”

  “Not a bad place,” he said, spearing a chunk of potato from his plate. She stared out the small four-pane window and continued her story.

  “Those cowboys pinned me in the dirt. They tore off my pretty dress and then they called me a ‘squaw.’ ” She spoke as if she was reliving a dream and Slocum wasn’t in the room. “They held my arms down on the ground and the others, they spread my legs apart. The first one asked me if I liked it when he stuck his dick in me like he was a great stallion. Ha, he thought he was like that big roan out there.” She straightened her spine and drew a breath as she shook her head. “They were no bigger than dogs with little soft twigs. None of them were big as a real man, so I closed my eyes and endured them.”

  He nodded that he had heard her as he wolfed down her food. She’d sure had her share of hell in that deal—obviously there was no respect for any Indian woman in such hellholes. Even dressed in white woman’s clothes. It sure must have been a shock for a girl fresh from finishing school, suddenly stripped naked and wallowing on her back in the dust with rutting drunks on top of her.

  “Devereau is not a stallion either,” she said, turning to look at him. Then she wrinkled her nose.

  “Don’t make a move, Slocum!” a voice ordered. He saw a flash of shock in her eyes. The cock of the pistol sounded real enough at his back, and Slocum raised his hands. Who the hell was behind him? Devereau?

  16

  “How the hell did that son of a bitch find this place?” Knotts demanded of Red Feather.

  “I don’t know. He rode up and said his name was Simmons.”

  Seated in a chair against the wall, Slocum strained at the ropes that bound his wrists as the lawman slapped her open-handed across the face. Slocum was gagged with his own kerchief, and his breath raged through his nose as the hemp cut into his flesh. Swollen with anger, he watched Knotts jerk her up in his face with a firm grip on her arm.

  “What did you tell him about me?”

  “Nothing, I swear.” She cowered as he raged in her face.

  “I’m going to bust your ass until you tell me.”

  “I told him nothing. He said he was a cattle buyer.”

  “Goddamn squaw, I’ll find out what you told him!” He dragged her to the center of the room. Holding her by one hand, he tossed a rope over the beam with the other. Then he loped the lariat around her wrists and jerked her up on her toes. Ignoring her protests, he tied the rope off to the post, leaving her hanging as he deliberately began to remove his gun belt with his hard glare fixed on her. He stripped the belt from his pants and quickly lashed out at her with it.

  Then he moved in and undid the buttons on her skirt. She squirmed to get away, but strung up on her toes as she was, it was hopeless. The skirt fell away, and he stepped back with a crooked smile to examine his work. Then he moved in and with both hands jerked her underwear down to her knees, exposing the light brown half-moons of her derriere.

  “Damn you, Knotts, when Devereau finds out about this—”

  “Devereau ain’t doing nothing to me.”

  The loud slap of his belt on her skin made chills run up Slocum’s spine. She tried to swing away from it, but Knotts moved in close and steadied her so that each time the doubled leather whacked her across the butt, the blow was sharp and she began to cry out with each lick.

  Damn you, Knotts! Slocum wished he could rip asunder the ties that bound his hands to the ladder-back chair. If his mouth was even free, he would curse the lawman until he turned his attention from her to him.

  Unable to do a thing, he watched the fury of Knott’s actions as the man raged each time he swung his belt, hitting her again and again.

  “You damn Injun squaw. You red whore. I’ll teach you to talk to bastards like him!” Knotts swore at her. The sound of leather hitting her flesh stung Slocum like heat lightning.

  “What did you tell the sumbitch?” Another slap of leather on her butt, and Slocum closed his eyes in helpless horror.

  At last, she no longer screamed. Suspended by her wrists, she half spun with each slap. The skin on her butt was a fiery red from his savage attack.

  Flush-faced and out of breath, Knotts fell back like a drunk. He dropped the belt. Intent on her, he fumbled with his fly and finally undid his pants. Sl
ocum frowned as he saw the stiff rod that Knotts took in his fist. Unsteady, Knotts teetered on his boot heels. In a frenzy he began to stroke his prize. His guttural breathing and grunting grew louder. Finally, he stepped closer to her in a drunken dance, then, with a hunch of his butt, came in a thick stream that he painted over her bare legs and butt.

  Slocum closed his eyes as the ropes binding him gave a fraction of an inch under his supreme efforts. Oh, God, please let me loose and let me at that asshole.

  Knotts finally struggled to lift her unconscious body under his arm and undo the rope on her wrists. He would heave and then fumble at the knots. At last, unable to undo her, he drew out his jackknife and cut her down. She fell in a heap. Sprawled on the floor, she groaned in pain.

  “Remember when Devereau gets here that Slocum did that to you,” he shouted at her.

  Not looking up at him, she rubbed her raw wrists. Finally, she sat up with her eyes closed to the pain. Quickly she rose to her knees, looking over her shoulder, and tenderly cupped her sore posterior with a face filled with hurt. She shook her head as if in disbelief.

  “Better get dressed,” Knotts said, dishing himself out a plate of her food. “I’ve got to figure out how to get rid of this troublemaker.” He nodded toward Slocum.

  He put the plate of food down and frowned after her as she rushed outside carrying her skirt and underwear.

  “Where the hell is she going? She’s a real bitch,” he said to Slocum, setting down his plate. “She must have told you about me, huh?”

  Slocum acted deaf and dumb.

  “Well, there ain’t much to tell. Since you’re a dead man anyway, I’ll tell you the whole story. They pay sheriffs in Green Hopper County thirty bucks a month, and a dollar a day per prisoner in my jail and I’ve got to feed them out of that.” He took a forkful of food, chewed on it some, then went on talking with his mouth full. “Folks like Dayton Taylor and them Martins, they’ve got their own ranches. All I got is this badge, see. They want that Cottrel bitch’s place and any other place they can get their greedy hands on. They’re going to be big ranchers one day. If this damn drought don’t put them all under first.”